The scientists said “Go, don’t pack.”And most did, though some stayed,confident, to be swept up in theblast from hell, of rock, ash,fire, smoke and deadly gas,that roared from the mountain’sslipped side, combingtens of thousands of trees flat,blasting water from the lake,greying out the sky, cooling the globe.

Announcements flow, fuzzy, distant, jumbled,
A man who loves to hear his voice,
Half-obscuring far-off trains and planes
That add layers to the summer’s buzz.

The visitors stroll, undistracted,
Some young, some old, some barely live.
Too many pink-skinned, seizing a rare sunny week,
Ignoring the risk.

Old ladies with hats, some thin, some fat,
Wobble walking-sticked round the stalls.
Husbands long gone, handbags strapped
Over skinny chests or pendulous breasts.

Above the park, vintage cars
Ranged in rows of shiny pride,
Reflect their owners’ age and
Bring our own memories back.

Losing Lyme

Warmer winters bring

daily deluges, drenching Dorset.

Hills are heavy, soil saturates,

turf tilts, starts to slide.

Groaning ground awakes the town,

to tell them their

futile fight to resist ruin

has failed, and East Lyme

slips seawards.

St Michael’s tower topples

slowly onto its side,

broken trees creep casually,

like stiff snakes

while Mary Anning’s bones are bared.

Lake storm

The sun’s reflected in the glossy water,

but a breeze begins, turns into a wind

That works hard to ruffle the surface

Creating waves, while storm clouds gather

And gusts turn the lake into a raging lion

To threaten sailors, but then abate

And the mirror slowly returns.

Heat

I stand at the bus-stop, burning,

sweat trickles down my leg, into my shoes.

The sun bakes the roof and me,

senseless shade, no respite.

The church clock strikes steadily,

Marking the long, lingering hours of

Summer noon, when dogs doze

and humans hide from the heat

until the evening breeze blows.

Stonebarrow Hill in
winterI
close the door, go through the gate
Turn up the road, into the path
My boots sink through the cloying mud.

I climb the hill, through mud and thorns
Emerge and breathe, the gorse behind
Spread out my arms, as does the bay
Below the sky - a weary blue
That fights the clouds, their edges gold
From setting sun that disappears
And leaves behind a dozen greys
As clouds and sky merge into sea.

The icy wind cuts through my clothes
And as the light begins to fail
I turn my back and leave the bay
Go down the path, pick up old wood
To feed the fire that warms the house
And keeps away the winter’s worst.

The windThe wind blowsAnd wakes wavesIn serried rows.

Fierce the wind blows.The lighthouse glowsSaving ships.

Fierce the wind blow,Waking waves.

Golden Cap dig 2011Three thousand years agoFour nobles died, were laid to restIn mounds heaped up, for all to know.And when the wild wind from the westWhips up the waves along the bay,It gives the cliff its sternest test.The sand and clay are washed away,Encouraging the cliff to fallAnd turn the sea a foaming grey.

Behind the edge a crack once smallNow opens up and breaks apartReveals a fresh and sandy wall.And now the slip has reached the partWhere four mounds mark the heroes’ graveAnd so the digging had to start.

Lulworth CoveSea
of tranquillity, enclosed in a bay
Carved out by Channel breaker-storms
Smashing the hard rock, then the soft chalk.
We climb the ridge, look down on you,
Hemmed in by the thunder of artillery fire,
Rippling its echo across the sea.
Next day, we approach you through
Breathless ascent and descent along the
Switchback of cliffs. We sit and gather
Pure white stones from your beach.

Beachy HeadThe
wind ruffles the chalky grass,
Trying to knock us down.
I find a stone, go to the edge,
Frightened, draw back my arm,
Use all my strength and throw,
Lie flat and follow it down but
I can’t see it hit the water. Instead,
I rest my eyes on the rusting
Sea-shattered wreck.
“Get back” my mother screams.
She hates all five of us milling around,
Chasing each other on top of the cliff.
My father smiles, he loves the scene,
Loves to scare her. He always did.

DordogneFrom
every castle, rock and hill,The
view's the same, but changes.The
calm Dordogne weaves its wayBetween
the patchwork fields.

One
field waves in golden corn,Lit by
sun all afternoon.Its
neighbour now breathes in the shade,Heavy
with the sweetening grape.

Far
below, the farmer strides,Sweating
in late summer warmth,Dog by
side and gun in hand,Seeking
the meat of the boar.